


Slip Of The Tongue

by Dandelioff



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Absolutely no storyline, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Doing sexy things, Geralt gets some tlc, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Just two people in a field by a fence, M/M, Nipple Licking, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, there is no plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandelioff/pseuds/Dandelioff
Summary: "What do you mean, tongues can't be used for anything besides kissing?"Jaskier is understandably appalled when Geralt lets slip that the only pleasurable act he'd ever had done to him involving tongues, was kissing. In fact, he was so appalled, he decided to correct that dreadful oversight himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 308
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #010, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	Slip Of The Tongue

Jaskier doesn't know how he's gotten to this point, tying  _ the _ Geralt of Rivia to a fencepost, entirely naked. He pinches himself, just to make sure this isn't some torturous lucid dream, and finds himself the recipient of a dirty glare. He shrugs apologetically, slightly embarrassed at being caught. But then again, this is Geralt, and pinching himself is hardly the most embarrassing thing Geralt has seen him do.

Geralt is surprisingly pliant beneath his fumbling hands as they tie his wrists to the fence behind him. In fact, he’s been surprisingly compliant all afternoon, ever since he’d accepted Jaskier’s offer. He’d grumbled aloud at everything Jaskier did as was customary, but it had felt half-hearted, like his mind was too far away to worry about the fact that Jaskier had collected the wrong sort of wood for their fire and that they’d definitely regret it when night fell.  _ Jaskier _ is worried about it. His scrambled thoughts are quickly shuffled to a backseat as Jaskier secures the final knot, tugging to make sure it’s as tight as he can get it. Geralt puts in a cursory effort to try and muscle his way out of the knots, and Jaskier is unduly gratified at the mild shock that crosses Geralt’s visage when the rope doesn’t give so much as an inch. Geralt snorts, but settles obediently.

_ He looks magnificent like this _ , Jaskier thinks, as he steps back to admire his handiwork. "Are you sure you don't want me to use my scarves instead," Jaskier asks Geralt for the third time in as many minutes. "This rope is terrible, Geralt. It's ugly and coarse and probably still has monster residue. You're going to get rope burns." His voice veers into a concerned pitch as he continues needling Geralt about rope-safety, which is apparently something his darling Witcher has never heard of. Jaskier sighs inaudibly. He often finds himself worried about all the needless harshness Geralt had endured because no one had bothered to show him an iota of compassion, not even as a child.

Geralt glowers up at him. "If you ask me  _ one more time _ , I'm going to rip these pathetic knots off-" "Okay, okay," Jaskier says, cutting off what was surely the start of a very succinct and unimpressed rebuke. "I'm sorry, I won't ask again. Forgive me for caring about the state of your skin." He rolls his eyes at the scoff it earns him. “And those knots are  _ not _ pathetic. It took me  _ weeks  _ to learn to do them this well. I had to sacrifice lute callouses to do it too!” Geralt is decidedly unmoved in the face of his ire. Jaskier huffs under his breath and decides to let this one go,  _ for now. _ But rest assured, he will definitely be bringing it up later.

Geralt is seated with his legs stretched out in front of him, back leaning against the fence and arms tied to its posts by elegant little sailor’s knots at his wrists. Geralt's hair has been carefully parted, and spills across his shoulders, ends curling into the hollows of his collarbones. The gentle evening sunlight casts a golden glow over his alabaster skin, a delightful contrast against the browns and ochres of the field around them and the fence bracketing them. Geralt's expression is slightly constipated, like he's not sure how they ended up like this, but going along with it anyway. It's a face he wears frequently around Jaskier. 

Jaskier can’t pick one single thing to focus on, eyes flitting from dusky nipples to a silvered happy trail, down to mouthwateringly muscular calves and surprisingly elegant ankles. He didn’t think  _ anything _ about Geralt could be described as delicate, but those ankles...He’s startled out of his revere by Geralt saying his name. By his snappy tone of voice, Jaskier can only assume he’s been calling to him for a while, but Jaskier had been too busy gawping at Geralt to hear it. Jaskier’s cheeks colour, and he clears his throat. 

“You’re staring,” Geralt grumbles.  _ He sounds embarrassed, _ Jaskier muses.  _ Well that won’t do _ . “Because you look spectacular, my dear,” Jaskier winks at him. “Now you just sit back and relax and let me do all the work here. I did promise to show you everything my mouth could do, didn’t I?” He waggles his eyebrows, cheeks splitting with the force of his grin. There’s an entire swarm of butterflies in his stomach, fluttering up a storm.  _ He has to do this right.  _

His mind flashes briefly to the conversation they’d had while setting up camp. Jaskier had been crowing about the night he’d spent with the alderman’s very enthusiastic daughter, and her impeccable skill with her tongue. “Hmm,” Geralt had rumbled, “a good kisser then”. “Well yes,” Jaskier remembers saying, “but that’s not all.” Geralt hadn’t understood what he meant. It had then predictably dissolved into a long, drawn out argument about the usage of tongues for more interesting things than just kissing, and Geralt had let slip that he had no idea what Jaskier was talking about. Absolutely no idea. Jaskier had been appalled, he still was appalled, and maybe slightly tearful. Almost a century of existence, and he’d never been given head? What kind of utilitarian sex has his dear Witcher been subjecting himself to? The tongue,  _ not interesting, _ indeed. Unbelievable.

And then somehow that had led to Jaskier offering to show Geralt everything he’d been missing. It had taken a lot of words, some begging, and some very suggestive sausage eating, before Geralt had crumbled. He’d scowled, but had done a cursory check around the perimeter for any lurking threats before declaring them as safe as they could possibly get on the path. Which brings them to now, Geralt, naked and tied up, and Jaskier, fully clothed, kneeling between his spread legs. He chooses not to focus on how that affects him, still fully clothed but servicing a naked Geralt.

Jaskier leans forward, cups his hands around Geralt’s sharp jaw and drops a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose. He can feel his voice quaking in anticipation. “I’m going to start now, and I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me second anything feels uncomfortable. I know you have your ‘I’m a Witcher I don’t know pain’ thing going on, but I don’t want to hurt you. This is supposed to feel good, okay?” He looks into those incandescent amber eyes, willing Geralt to understand with his gaze. Geralt looks back steadily, and nods. Jaskier lets out a breath of relief. 

He leaves one hand on Geralt’s jaw and slides the other down the column of his neck, using his hold to bare Geralt’s throat. It’s risky, this early in the scene, but Geralt offers no resistance. Jaskier leans down and blows onto the skin beneath Geralt’s earlobe, behind the angle of his jaw. He then licks a broad stripe around the area with his tongue, following with a sharp nip. He works at it, worrying the skin between his teeth, alternating between kitten licks and harsher bites until it flushes a deep satisfying pink. He blows again on the lurid mark that’s formed, and Geralt shivers. 

Geralt’s face is still placid however, like he’s playing the role of passive observer; Jaskier is determined to make that change. He sweeps Geralt’s hair to side first, gently tumbling the glossy strands over his shoulder-blades. Jaskier scores his teeth along the raised muscle of Geralt’s neck, from the edge of the bite mark down to the hollow of his collarbones, letting his tongue swirl gently around the sharp jut of bone, before repeating it on the other side. He marks a trail descending from the hollow above Geralt’s sternum, to the valley between his lovely pecs, before stopping just shy of a nipple. It’s a dusky rose, pebbled and risen to a nub. Jaskier salivates. Geralt is still impassive, but the faint colour steadily rising beneath his porcelain complexion reveals his arousal.

Jaskier bites  _ around  _ the nipple first, adding blemishes to the smooth marble alongside crisscrossing scars. He nibbles and sucks, pinches and pulls until Geralt jerks forward, a muffled moan slipping past his slack mouth. He instantly moulds his lips shut, and his eyes snap open. He looks stunned, but determined not to divulge any more reactions.  _ Well that won’t do _ , Jaskier thinks, as he looks at the puffy nipple and the ring of purple indents that surround it. 

Jaskier sucks the warm peak into the wet heat of his mouth, rolling the nub around with his tongue, teasing the tender flesh with the point of his canines. Geralt jolts like a livewire, pushing his chest into Jaskier’s mouth, mouth clenched around a wordless plea for more.  _ He can’t understand why Geralt is fighting what he’s feeling, but he’s going to make sure he breaks that ironclad resolve. _ Jaskier delivers his all. He suckles gently at first, soothing the overheated skin, before upping the pressure in varying increments. His palm is flat on Geralt’s sternum, fingers flexed and nails digging crescents into his flesh. His other hand strays downwards, counting ribs and tracing raised scar tissue. 

He raises his head when he feels Geralt stiffening, hears the beginnings of a whimper before it’s viciously stifled. Geralt’s face is flushed, eyes fluttering and lips bitten. “Sensitive?” Jaskier whispers, pursing his lips and letting out a puff of cool air over the abused nub. Geralt trembles, but his jaw tightens. “Hng,” he grunts in reply,not looking at Jaskier.. His voice is thick. “Why’d you stop?”

_ Because any more and I could hurt you _ , Jaskier thinks,  _ because you didn’t tell me when it became too much _ . “Well, your other nipple is looking rather lonely, don’t you think,” is what Jaskier says, hand traversing across that broad chest to trace the puckered skin with the blunt edge of a nail. His smile is sharp. “I can’t possibly neglect it.” His finger presses down on the raised nub. He leans toward it, licking his lips and looking up through his fringe to meet Geralt’s widening eyes with an impish gaze. He gets to work.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Jaskier sits back on his haunches, peering at the deliciously glistening skin of Geralt’s chest, and the deep reddish brown of his erect nipples, surrounded by a ring of purpling hickeys. He’d gone back and forth between both nipples, a merciless assault of teeth and tongue and fingers bringing Geralt to the razor-edge of pleasure and pain. Geralt is whimpering, lashes sewn shut and lips quivering. His cheeks are a delectable red, flushed more than Jaskier thought possible, given how adamantly Geralt had insisted that Witchers could not blush. His brows are furrowed and his fingers twitch in their confines. He looks undone. 

Jaskier rushes to comfort him, scooting closer and cradling his scrunched face. Geralt squints at him through half-lidded eyes and unfocused pupils. "Shh Geralt, I've got you. I've got you," he whispers, like he's calming a skittish lamb and not one of the fiercest and most dangerous men to ever exist. His fingers run softly through silken hair, deftly avoiding any tangles that could cause pain. His other hand rests against Geralt's jaw, thumb drawing soothing circles across a cheek. Geralt’s eyes slowly slide shut and he slumps in his bonds. His breathing relaxes from its erratic rhythm and his face no longer looks stuck in a grimace.  _ Good _ , Jaskier thinks,  _ he's getting there _ .

The amount of trust in this gesture humbles him, more than losing to Valdo Marx ever could. That a man as hurt and betrayed as Geralt could find it in him to trust Jaskier not only with his life, but with his dignity, his pleasure- he feels that warmth all the way to his toes.

Slowly, he lets his hands drift downwards, past the mounds of Geralt’s pecs and their slick, distended peaks, to the bumpy ridges of his abdomen.  _ One day, he's going to have enough coin to feed Geralt to his heart's desire. He'll see this powerful frame rid of its features of dehydration and starvation.  _ But not today. Today, he's here to make Geralt feel good. To light up every sensitive nerve ending he can reach, to feel these tightly coiled muscles turn lax with the rush of pleasure. He will make Geralt feel desired, the way a man as wonderful as him ought. He’ll fill him with a myriad of songs and words of praise, vanquishing all insidious murmurs of insecurity and self-recrimination. He’s got a long way to go, to make up for all the suffering Geralt has faced, and he intends to make full use of every moment he’s afforded.

He scores his blunt nails in the dips between Geralt's muscles, following the red lines with his tongue. He sucks dull marks along Geralt's flanks, the arch of his hip-bones, the slight concavity of his belly. He dips his tongue into Geralt's belly button and licks the smears of precum dribbled beside it by Geralt's weeping cock. It’s fully erect, long and thick, with a bulbous head.  _ He’s going to enjoy this so much. _

Jaskier lowers himself till he is almost prostrated in the grass between Geralt's spread legs, lying on his front with his chest raised and neck arched, putting him at just the right height for what’s coming next.

He wraps his fingers around the base of Geralt's cock, marveling at its girth. He can feel the phantom pain in his jaw already. His mouth waters. He leans forward and inhales deeply, letting that dizzying musk fill his lungs. He presses a soft kiss to the tip and blows wetly onto it. Geralt groans like he's been punched in the gut; his abs flutter and thighs clench. Jaskier pops the head into his mouth, lips pulled tight, and Geralt's mouth opens on a long whine. Jaskier keeps his jaw working, tongue acting out every dirty trick it's ever learned, as he takes Geralt's cock in deeper. There's drool spilling out of the corner of his mouth, and above him, Geralt has gone silent. 

Jaskier pulls off, giving his throat a break, and licks his way up and down the massive shaft, getting it shiny and slick spit for his hands. He strokes it slowly, in the taut grip of his palm, and chances a glance upwards. Geralt's mouth is open in a silent moan, head leaning back against the fence and eyes closed. His thighs are rigid as granite slabs on either side of Jaskier, in an effort not to crush his head between them. Jaskier's cock twitches in the wet confines of his breeches, aching for attention. He ignores it. He turns his head and presses a kiss to Geralt's thigh, a soft, revenant gesture, before parting his lips and biting down hard. He can feel the steel strength in the muscle as it jerks beneath his teeth, and the incredible control Geralt possesses as the movement is halted before it can dislodge him. He lifts his head up and licks his lips at the indents he's left behind. He can't help the shiver of possessiveness that crawls through him. He repeats it on the other thigh. Geralt trembles.

Jaskier gets his both hands on Geralt's cock, lifting the shaft and licking a stripe down the back. His fingers circle the head, cinching tight, and his tongue reaches out to flick Geralt's balls. The musk is stronger here, headier. He weighs the sac on his tongue, sucking them gently into his mouth, one side after the other. He can feel the tremors that shake Geralt's frame. He hums around the load in his mouth, a jaunty little tune, and delights in the growl it elicits from Geralt. He pulls back when he feels Geralt's balls tightening, lets them fall out of his mouth, and loosens his grip around the head of his dick. Geralt whines.  _ Looks like he’s given up on the silence then, _ Jaskier thinks.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, wanting to get his attention, but not wanting to pull him out of the haze he's settled into. "Hmmm," comes the languid reply. "Move up, my darling. I've got one more surprise left for you, and I can't get to like this." "Hmmm." Geralt grumbles, but he stirs. "Thank you, dear heart," Jaskier says, petting Geralt's leg. "Now, let's move you this way." 

He gets Geralt to lift his legs up, folding him almost in half as he pushes those flexed limbs against his chest. “Can you hold them up like this, or do you need me to release your arms?” Normally, Jaskier knows, Geralt could hold his muscles in acrobatic poses for hours, his flexibility and stamina unmatched. But Geralt’s skin is coated in a light sheen of sweat, and his abs are curled and quivering slightly. “I’m fine ,” Geralt bites out. “I don’t need my arms to hold myself up Jaskier.” His tone is defensive, but his words are said in a winded cadence. Jaskier raises an eyebrow, withholding his disbelief. He simply shrugs unaffectedly and lays his hands on Geralt’s hips, pushing down and angling Geralt’s pelvis slightly upwards. Jaskier feels his arousal rocket; Geralt looks so obscene, laid out completely bare in an open field. He swallowed audibly.  _ Please, lord of erections, whoever you are, don’t let me down. _

Jaskier sits on his calves and reaches out to grab two generous handfuls of Geralt’s ass. He leans forward and nips at the crease where the curve of Geralt’s ass meets his thigh, clenching his fingers for leverage. He spreads Geralt’s cheeks wide, exposing his cleft and that small pink puckered opening. Jaskier takes a deep breath to settle his raging thoughts. He laves a long, wet swipe with his tongue along Geralt’s crease, groaning low in his throat. He can feel Geralt's ass-cheeks clenching beneath his palms. He flicks the tip of his tongue around the rim and watches it flutter.  _ Fuck _ , he thinks.  _ He has to convince Geralt to let him do this again. This cannot be a one time thing.  _

Jaskier shifts his hands closer to the cleft and spreads his palm, holding Geralt's hole open with his thumbs. He spears his tongue into that tight, hot channel and instantly feels the vise grip of those muscles clamp down on him. He can only imagine what it'd feel like around his aching dick. Jaskier clenches his own thighs, his cock so close to bursting in his pants.  _ If he ever actually fucks Geralt, he’ll have to remember to rub one out beforehand, so he doesn’t embarrass himself.  _ Jaskier breathes through his nose and starts to wiggle his tongue around. He thrusts it in and out, moves it side to side, and feels the muscles slowly loosening around it. Geralt is keening above him, and Jaskier can feel Geralt's thighs shaking with the effort of staying in that position. Geralt's skin is slippery with sweat, and his weight is steadily increasing in Jaskier's grip on his ass.

Jaskier pulls away and sucks in a deep breath as his head rises from between Geralt's cheeks. Jaskier's face feels wet with spit and his jaw throbs with a dull ache. Geralt's cock is a furious red, almost purple at its tip. He's so close to coming. Jaskier presses the flat of his tongue against the glans, moves one hand to fondle Geralt's balls and the other slides down to trace his rim. He takes the flaring head of Geralt's prick into his mouth and sucks hard, pushing his finger in up to the first knuckle into Geralt's asshole. 

Geralt chokes, then comes with a guttural groan, body seizing. The fence creaks in protest, the jerk of Geralt's shoulders threatening to wrench them from the dirt. Geralt legs flop onto the ground, his mind too blissed out to hold them up. He's panting, loud and hard. Jaskier swallows the salty ejaculate coating his tongue and frantically sticks his hand into his own trousers, fisting his cock with no finesse. It takes him no more than a few strokes to paint the insides of his breeches in semen, back arched and lips parting around a broken cry.

Jaskier shudders and blinks his uncooperative eyelids, trying to regain some semblance of control. He looks up at Geralt, whose fists are clenched white around the coils of rope, biceps bunched and head thrown back; he looks utterly debauched. His hair is a mess, sweaty and stuck to his forehead and nape, and wildly tangled where it drapes over his shoulders. His jaw is finally loose, lips slack and tongue lolling. He’s sweating rivulets down his face, droplets glittering like precious gems adorning him in the waning sun. Braced against the dark wood of the fencepost with his chest heaving, ethereal doesn’t quite do justice to the vision Geralt presents. 

Jaskier’s heart is beating a mile a minute, breath hitching in his chest.  _ If he could immortalize this moment. _ “You’re exquisite, my dear,” he whispers, utterly bewitched. He rises up on shaky knees and cups Geralt's face in his sticky hands. He coaxes Geralt's eyes open and puts on his gentlest smile. "How are you, my dear?" he asks Geralt. He watches those cat-eyes blink languidly, flitting slowly around to take in their surroundings, before finally looking into Jaskier's eyes. "Hmmm'" Geralt says, but he sounds pleased, relaxed. Jaskier grins. "Hmm? That's all I get? I give you a world-shattering orgasm, and all you can manage is hmm?" He's aware of how indulgent his voice sounds, and he has no doubt Geralt can hear the fondness that lines his words. "Hmmm," Geralt says again, but his lips twitch in amusement. Jaskier snorts.

He stands up and moves to untie Geralt, pressing soft kisses and whispered promises of soothing salves into the abraded skin of Geralt's wrist.

"We need a bath," Jaskier says finally, once both he and Geralt have gotten up. He's trying not to worry about Geralt not saying anything about what they just did.  _ Maybe he's still processing it _ , Jaskier thinks.  _ Or maybe I've ruined our friendship and I'll never see him again _ . He awkwardly clears his throat and points a thumb towards the river, when Geralt does nothing more than stand shamelessly naked, body highlighted in the darkening hues of the setting sun. "I'll go first? Or do yo-"

Geralt strides past him towards the river. Jaskier trails off mid sentence, words sticking in his suddenly dry throat. "Okay then," he says, slightly shaky, "give me a shout when you're done? Or maybe-"

"Jaskier," Geralt's dry tone cuts him off. He's still walking away, calling over his shoulder. His voice is barely audible over the distance. Jaskier's heart thuds. "You were right," Geralt continues, "Your tongue is good for something after all."

Jaskier freezes. _Did he just? Was that?_ "Geralt! Geralt what did you just say?" He stumbles after Geralt, yelling. "Geralt say it again! Come on, I know you can hear me!" Geralt doesn't so much as turn around. Jaskier doesn't give up, though. _Geralt liked it, he had fun._ Jaskier is giddy with success. And to think, just a moment ago he'd been upset that he hadn't even managed to _kiss_ Geralt. _The possibilities are endless._ But first, he needs to catch up to the lumbering berk.

"Does this mean we can do this again? Geralt?"

"Geralt!"

Their silhouettes fade into the shadows as they walk away, one broad and steady, the other excitedly following in his wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](https://dandelioff.tumblr.com/) now! Feel free to drop by


End file.
